the three servants--for she had
allowed herself a housemaid, and she exerted her old-maidish energy in
taking stock of everything, examining everything, and arranging in
every respect for the comfort of her dear Marshal. Lisbeth, quite as
Republican as he could be, pleased him by her democratic opinions, and
she flattered him with amazing dexterity; for the last fortnight the old
man, whose house was better kept, and who was cared for as a child by
its mother, had begun to regard Lisbeth as a part of what he had dreamed
of.

"My dear Marshal," she shouted, following him out on to the steps, "pull
up the windows, do not sit in a draught, to oblige me!"

The Marshal, who had never been so cosseted in his life, went off
smiling at Lisbeth, though his heart was aching.

At the same hour Baron Hulot was quitting the War Office to call on his
chief, Marshal the Prince de Wissembourg, who had sent for him. Though
there was nothing extraordinary in one of the Generals on the Board
being sent for, Hulot's conscience was so uneasy that he fancied he saw
a cold and sinister expression in Mitouflet's face.

"Mitouflet, how is the Prince?" he asked, locking the door of his
private room and following the messenger who led the way.

"He must have a crow to pluck with you, Monsieur le Baron," replied the
man, "for his face is set at stormy."

Hulot turned pale, and said no more; he crossed the anteroom and
reception rooms, and, with a violently beating heart, found himself at
the door of the Prince's private study.

The chief, at this time seventy years old, with perfectly white hair,
and the tanned complexion of a soldier of that age, commanded attention
by a brow so vast that imagination saw in it a field of battle. Under
this dome, crowned with snow, sparkled a pair of eyes, of the Napoleon
blue, usually sad-looking and full of bitter thoughts and regrets, their
fire overshadowed by the penthouse of the strongly projecting brow. This
man, Bernadotte's rival, had hoped to find his seat on a throne. But
those eyes could flash formidable lightnings when they expressed strong
feelings.

Then, his voice, always somewhat hollow, rang with strident tones. When
he was angry, the Prince was a soldier once more; he spoke the language
of Lieutenant Cottin; he spared nothing--nobody. Hulot d'Ervy found the
old lion, his hair shaggy like a mane, standing by the fireplace, his
brows knit, his back against the mantel-shelf, and his eyes a